Running Away
by Hayseed Socrates
Summary: A chronological look at Patrick Jane's ingrained tendency to run away. The third and final chapter is up, and I've included an Epilogue. Expect drama, angst, and a bit of humor. I hope you enjoy it.
1. Chapter 1

.

I don't own these characters. D'oh. It is a testament to their hold on me, however, that a year after the series is over, I still feel compelled to write about them. Thanks, Heller. No copyright infringement intended.

 **AN: This will be a three part story. The initial chapter covers Jane's life before the CBI, the second will contain the CBI years, and the final chapter will finish up with his return to the FBI and the events that follow. An enormous thank you to Fiasco Way for the invaluable insight and advice on this one. I owe you.**

.

.

.

"You lost it, didn't you? Everything we took in last night!" His mother's angry voice awakened Patrick from his bed on the couch of the shabby trailer.

He squinted when she flipped on the light. An instant later his father's red face came into focus and as the man leaned on the counter for support, Patrick noted his narrowed and hazy eyes. Not yet five, he was all too familiar with how his father looked and behaved when he was drunk. Clumsy. Loud. Mean. When he glanced up at his mother he saw her lips purse – she wasn't backing down tonight. He knew he had to get out.

He snatched his tattered quilt and darted past them into the crisp summer evening. His parents barely noticed – their row was escalating, just as the boy knew it would. Luckily they'd been parked in this spot for a couple of days, and Patrick knew the lay of the land. He slipped into the darkness quickly, leaving the angry voices behind.

He made his way from their group of trailers down to a little creek he'd discovered yesterday. There he spread his quilt on a sandbar. Lying on his back, he stared up at the sky full of twinkling stars. They shone impassive and predictable - never sad or angry – and their quiet constancy soothed him. Back at the trailer he knew there was shouting and crying, but here the bugs chirped contentedly and the water gurgled peacefully on its way. Nothing would bother him here, and he soon drifted off to sleep.

When the rising sun awakened him, Patrick returned to their trailer. His father lay snoring in the back bed, but his mother was already up and gone as usual. She worked in the carnival master's office and they started early.

He checked the counter, and sure enough, there was his sandwich, sitting on a paper plate. She always remembered. He smiled and crawled up on the kitchen stool to eat his breakfast.

Two show stops later, his mother got a bad headache one night – so bad that she went to the hospital. She never came back. His father told him something in her brain had burst.

"You're gonna have to step up here and be part of the act now. No more freeloading," his father informed him. "Pull your own weight."

After that, Patrick made his own sandwiches.

888888888888

"Do you have a library card, young man?"

He jerked his head up, startled. Completely engrossed in his book, he hadn't noticed the trim, silver haired librarian approaching the table where he sat reading.

"No, I don't…have it with me."

She astutely sensed he was about to bolt. "It's okay if you don't have one," she reassured him. "I was going to show you how to get a card of your own. So you can check out books and you won't have to sit here all afternoon to finish one if you don't want to."

She didn't understand at all, the boy noted. He came to the library to get away, and in more ways than one - physically, from his father, who would assign him scores of menial jobs if he caught him idle, and mentally, when he disappeared into the myriad of worlds contained in those books.

It _would_ be nice to take a book down to the lake, young Patrick considered. He could read in the shade of that huge oak tree he'd discovered. But he had no address. You had to live someplace to get a library card – that much he knew.

"I'm with the carnival in town. I work with my dad. We're just passing through."

"Ah," she said, frowning. "What are you reading?"

He showed her his current book, a Sherlock Homes mystery.

"How old are you?"

"Nine." She peered at him with skepticism.

"I'm a good reader," he explained, flashing a sunny smile.

"You must be," she nodded, amused at his confidence. Her young guest wouldn't have spent the last few afternoons glued to books he didn't understand, so she figured he was telling the truth. "What's your name?"

"Patrick." He left off the 'Jane' out of habit. His father had taught him never to volunteer his surname, just in case someone remembered them from a previous visit.

"Well Patrick, if you _could_ check out books to read, _would_ you?"

"Yes. Ma'am," he added for good measure. He'd decided she meant him no harm, and he was well aware that older people liked good manners.

"If I let you take a book out, would you bring it back?"

His eyes brightened at the prospect. He imagined himself lounging under that oak down by the water with a sandwich and a pilfered apple or two. "Yes ma'am." Unruly blond curls bounced as he nodded eagerly.

And that's how he was able to spend nearly two weeks' worth of blissful afternoons lying in the shade, travelling to worlds unknown, fighting dragons, and solving mysteries. To add to his good fortune, his father met "Tamara" shortly after they arrived, and had therefore barely noticed his son's absence. At night Patrick would return to the trailer and hide his book under his couch frame while they did their shows. He hoped this run lasted a long time.

One night after their final show of the evening, his father grabbed his arm. "Load up Paddy, we're leaving tonight. As soon as possible."

"Why can't we wait until the morning?" he asked. He would gladly stay here indefinitely.

"Don't question me, boy! I have my reasons." Seeing the dismay on Patrick's face, his father felt compelled to explain. "Got a fellow looking for me, and he's not very happy. Damn woman neglected to mention she had a husband."

They were leaving now? What about his library book? The wheels turned quickly in Patrick's head. Before his father knew what was happening, the boy was in motion. He grabbed the book from under his couch and lit out running.

"Come back here, boy. You're gonna be sorry!"

Patrick kept running. "Back in a few minutes," he called over his shoulder. When he returned thirty minutes later, his father left marks on him. Patrick loaded their belongings in silence and soon they were on the road.

The next morning, the librarian arrived at her work at the usual hour. As she pulled her keys out to unlock the front door, she saw something at her feet. She picked up the copy of Huckleberry Finn and smiled. Years later, she would cry when she read about Patrick Jane in the news.

888888888

Truth be told, Patrick liked working the shows. His dad was on his back a lot less after a lucrative night, and sometimes he even gave him a little spending money, something a teenager always needed. But mostly he liked figuring out the people. They were remarkably easy to read, if you paid attention.

They all missed the people they loved, and they were scared their lives would go continue to go badly. It was the human condition. If you told them things were going to get better – if you made them think the people they missed loved them? Patrick learned quickly that people would gladly part with their money to believe that. He was selling hope, and business was good. Never mind if it was an illusion.

"No different than selling stiff drinks, m'boy," Alex would insist when he sensed his son was feeling some remorse about a particular con. "We're providing a valuable service for these poor dumb bastards."

Long before the marks realized their lives hadn't actually changed, he and his father were gone – on to the next town of unhappy suckers. Did it really matter if the hope was real or not, as long as the people thought it was? If they wanted to run away from the truth, well, he was more than happy to assist them.

888888888888

"Your dad's wrong, you know."

He and Angela lay on a blanket tucked into a little grove of trees overlooking the river. This was their hideout, their place they came to be together – away from the cacophony of the circus and beyond the eyes of disapproving parents.

"People aren't fools because they trust someone. They're just nice people," Angela continued. "I don't want to spend the rest of my life in this kind of business, do you?"

"I do like reading people," he conceded. "But I've had it with my father."

"I want to live like a normal person. In a home. Maybe have some friends who aren't all con men. Friends who can trust each other."

 _"I'm_ a con man…" he observed, tilting his head.

"You don't have to be. And you aren't, deep down. I trust you."

He let that sink in. It warmed him to the core – the fact that she trusted him. Loved him, even. Patrick understood she was far too good a person to be content living the carnie life. He wanted happiness for her – for them – and they weren't going to find it here. They would have to leave to make that happen. "So let's run away. Go someplace where we can do whatever we want."

She sat up, staring intently at him. "Do you mean that?"

He sat up as well, meeting her eyes. "Yes. Just you and me. We can make our own life. Away from this," he motioned back in the direction of the carnival.

"You mean it," she repeated, this time as a statement. She realized he was serious.

He sat up a little straighter. Something important was happening in this moment and he had to keep it alive. "I love you - you know that," he told her. "Let's escape from this. Just you and me."

The possibility both scared and enticed her. "When? How?"

"I've got some cash saved – that would get us started."

She nodded, excited. "I could get a waitressing job or teach piano maybe – I'm sure we could figure something out."

"I could do a little psychic work on my own." He was good at this. Why not use his talents to their advantage?

She frowned. "That's not honest work."

"Just for a little while," he added. "Then I'll find something else. After we have a down payment on that home you want."

"Okay," she acquiesced. "Just until we get on our feet."

"We can escape from this, Angie."

She snuggled closer to him. "Yes, I believe we can. Together. We'll be so happy!"

He pulled this beautiful, amazing woman into his arms and let himself believe it, too.

888888888

He was in his office adjacent to his Malibu home when he got the call. Carol Gentry, an ex-client of his, was dead. Suicide. He sighed, closing his eyes, and remembered back about a month ago. He'd told her during a "reading" session that her dead mother forgave her, and she'd become visibly upset. How had he failed to pick up on an abusive parent? He must have been tired or distracted to miss something so blatantly obvious.

Carol had never come back to him after that day, but that could have been for a lot of reasons. Yes, he'd slipped up, but he couldn't be responsible for every disturbed person who sought him out, now could he?

 _Enough work today_ , he decided, closing his notebook and heading out the office door. As he walked across the yard to his house, he spied Charlotte on the patio. She was having an outdoor tea party with a couple of her stuffed animals, and he approached them. What he needed was to clear his mind, and he knew just what would help him leave those troubling thoughts behind.

"Good afternoon, m'lady," he said formally, bowing. This was their game.

"Good afternoon, sir," she replied and acknowledged him with a curt nod. "Mr. Scruffy and I are having tea with Ms. Twinkles."

"So I have observed. After tea is concluded, how would the lady like to take a walk down on the beach?"

Charlotte's eyes brightened and she hopped up, immediately dropping the pretense. "Yes, daddy!"

"Go tell your mother," he instructed the child, and she was in the house before he finished the sentence. He was working as a psychic so he could give this to his family, he reminded himself. A beautiful home. Tea parties. A view of the ocean. It was worth it. He just needed to get away for a little while and he would be fine.

Charlotte soon reemerged from the back door at a gallop. "Let's run away down to the beach," she squealed.

"Yes," he agreed, taking her small hand in his. "Let's run away."

888888888888

As he straightened his tie in the mirror, he could feel the intensity of her disapproving glare. Since Charlotte was playing at a friend's house, Angela was pouncing on this opportunity to lay into him regarding his gig tonight. About what he did to earn them a living. He wished she wouldn't do that.

His hour long appearance on the TV talk show tonight was lucrative in itself, but the publicity would net him thousands in new client fees. It was opportunities like this that allowed their daughter to want for nothing. He was doing it for them – for Charlotte and Angela. And yet his wife insisted she wanted him to stop. All he wanted was the best for his family. Did she really want him to give this up? It was maddening.

"Patrick. Please promise me this is the last time."

"This is harmless," he insisted, smoothing down his hair. "I go on TV for an hour. Give them some smoke and mirrors. I _entertain_ them. And that makes this," he waved his hand at their surroundings, "possible."

"It's NOT harmless. What do we tell Charlotte, huh? She's getting old enough to understand the dishonestly in this. What do we tell her, Patrick?"

"Just a little longer and we'll have enough salted away that we'll never have to worry about living out of a trailer. That's not what I want for our family. Is that what you want?"

He turned to face her. Saw the set of her jaw and the disappointment in her eyes. He didn't need this right now. Plus, he knew from experience that there was no chance of a civil conversation at this point. They should have this discussion later, after she'd calmed down.

He made a show of looking at his Rolex. "I've gotta go. They want me there by six for makeup," he lied. His call time was six thirty. He straightened his suit jacket. "Do I look okay?" he asked, trying to divert the conversation.

"Like a con man," she blurted out. "You look like a Goddamn con man is what you look like." She paused, and then added," But you're not. Not really." A tear rolled down her cheek.

He couldn't take this.

"I'm sorry, I've got to go," he replied stoically. When he leaned toward her to give her a kiss, she backed away.

"Please quit this, Patrick. Please."

"We can talk when I get home tonight." Then again, it might be pretty late. He generally stayed after at these things to drum up business. "Or tomorrow." He slipped past her toward the door. "I'm late," he lied again.

888888888888

Patrick sat on the floor in the living room of his empty house. He didn't know what time it was. He didn't care. Six months had passed since his arrogance and stupidity had resulted in the horrific murders of his wife and daughter. They were gone, and they weren't coming back. Ever. He had no one left.

He'd tried drinking himself into oblivion, but every time he closed his eyes he could still see little Charlotte's open, dead eyes staring at him. He could see Angela, the love of his life, gutted like a fish in their bed. He could smell the stench of their blood. And when he awoke after his binges, the hurt and darkness were still there, unchanged.

Sometimes he ate. Sometimes he didn't. But the pain – the pain never let up.

He couldn't take this any longer. He had to get away from this agony. It would hurt for a few minutes, and then he could leave this meaningless existence behind. He raised the serrated knife and stared at it. Surely this would do the job quickly. He looked down at his left wrist, screwing up his resolve to make a cut, when a pecking noise distracted him. In his peripheral vision he saw Murray, the lawn man, peeking in through the glass of his back door. His eyes were wide.

Patrick dropped the knife to his side, trying to hide his intentions, but Murray was already through the unlocked door, bounding toward him with a hook of horror on his face.

"No, Mr. Jane!" He punched numbers into his phone. "I need an ambulance!"

It was too late to run. He dropped his eyes to the floor and let his thoughts float away. Far, far away.

.

.

.

 **AN: Well, that's it for the backstory. I hope you enjoyed it! Next up: the CBI years.**


	2. Mission

.

No copyright infringement is intended. Believe me, if I could stop borrowing these characters I would.

.

 _AN: Thanks to everyone who left comments on the first chapter. I love them like dark chocolate. This second chapter is set during the CBI years, and the time frame is stated prior to each scene. There's some drama, some angst, and hopefully a bit of humor, too. I hope you enjoy it._

 _Another note of appreciation to Fiasco Way for all the help on this chapter. I am grateful indeed._

.

.

 **About four months after Red Dawn, far prior to the Pilot**

Cho poured himself a cup of coffee while Rigsby scanned the break room fridge for stray food. Back in the office from a major takedown, they were gearing up for a long afternoon of paperwork.

"So," the taller agent began. "Wha'd you think about Jane today?"

"What about him?" Cho sniffed his cup and wished he'd made a fresh pot.

"He _ran_ behind the outbuilding when we went into the house for the takedown, Cho. Like a girl."

"Lisbon's a girl," Cho replied with a hint of protectiveness.

"That's…not the same. C'mon, you know what I mean. He was scared."

"So?"

"We're the laughing stock of SacPD."

Cho shrugged as he added creamer to his cup. "He doesn't have a gun or a vest."

"Yeah, I get that. But to actually run away? All he had to do was sit in the van. I say it makes the unit look bad." Rigsby pulled a container of Muscle Milk off the top shelf and searched for the 'use by' date. "Didn't Weber say these were fair game?"

"Yeah – he didn't like the vanilla." Cho looked at his partner with equal parts amazement and disgust as he downed the entire container in one gulp. "Jane's been here for four months. We've closed over twice as many cases as we usually do in that time. _And_ we've closed every case we've caught."

"All that's great but…" Wayne hedged. "I just wish he'd sit in the car or something. Makes us look bad, that's all I'm saying."

Cho stared at the tall man's upper lip.

"What?

"Your lip."

"Oh, thanks." As Rigsby swiped off his white moustache with the back of his hand, he spied movement in his peripheral vision. He turned around only to see that Jane had materialized in the doorway, holding an empty teacup. _Oh shit_. He wondered how much of their conversation the newbie consultant had heard.

"Did I miss something?"

"Rigsby thinks you run away from takedowns like a little girl," Cho deadpanned.

Rigsby was mortified. "I just meant…" he faltered. His words hung in the awkward silence.

Jane walked across the room to where his teakettle sat on the counter. "I'm not an agent, I'm a consultant. I've never sworn to uphold the law and, " he shrugged," I probably never will."

"It looks bad," Rigsby countered defensively. "What if people see you running away? I mean, we're supposed to serve and protect."

"I'm hired to figure out who commits the crimes, am I not? That's the 'service' I provide. And why would you want me _protecting_ people? I believe my track record in _that_ department stands on its own."

"Yeah, but…"

Cho glared at Rigsby.

Jane picked up the teakettle and moved to the sink. "SacPD wonders how you can work with such a 'wuss,' correct?"

"No, that's not…" Rigsby stammered, but Jane knew he'd hit the nail on the head.

"I can't be concerned with that," he interrupted as he filled the kettle. He paused, squinted at Rigsby, and motioned toward the man's upper lip. "Um…"

Rigsby's hand shot up to his mouth, giving it another swipe. "I'm just sayin'," the flustered agent gave it one last shot and then blew out a defeated breath. He was done with this conversation. "I've got work to do," he mumbled and made a beeline back to his desk.

Cho remained expressionless as Jane calmly turned up the heat under his kettle. But when he turned to follow his fellow agent to the bullpen, a hint of a smile passed over his face.

.

.

 **Scarlet Fever Season 1**

Jane emerged from the break room a moment too soon. Oscar and his father caught him in the hallway and offered him their sincere thanks for catching the woman who'd poisoned the boy's mother. After he said his polite goodbyes, Jane joined the team in the bullpen, stealing a glance backward to make sure the pair was out of earshot. "I do hate it when they thank me."

"Why?" Rigsby asked.

Lisbon cracked an amused smile. "He likes playing the Lone Ranger. Who was that masked man? I never got a chance to thank him."

"Exactly," Jane agreed with fake enthusiasm.

The case was closed and he was done for the day. Time to let the rest of the team spend the afternoon mired down in the tedium of paperwork. He ambled over to his couch and collapsed onto it with a sigh, stretching out and closing his eyes. He would gladly let them think he ran away from the victim's gratitude to maintain a sense of glorified mystery. He preferred it that way.

The reality of "why" was complex and tangled. A lot of reasons entered into the authentic explanation, which he would never share.

Self loathing played a part – one 'good deed' certainly did not make him a good man, worthy of gratitude. And had he even done a good deed? He didn't work to find killers to help the victims – he found them to amuse himself and to prove that he could. That shouldn't earn him any thanks from the survivors.

A dab of jealousy entered into it also, he reflected. These victims got to have their closure, while he was forced to wait for his own. Maybe he should throw in some fear as well – fear that he himself would never get closure at all, even after he found and killed Red John.

These feelings and many, many more were part of the recipe for his avoidance behavior, and he could spend the afternoon mulling them. But he already knew the most important reason, and it was simple. While those survivors expressed their deep appreciation for his help, the fact was, nothing he had done would bring back the person they loved. In their eyes, he saw the same gratitude he'd seen time after time in his clients' eyes all those years. Reflected in their gaze, he saw himself as the charlatan he was.

With every "thank you, Mr. Jane" he received, the guilt and remorse and shame for the lies he'd sold all those years hit him smack between the eyes. Those lies were what got his family killed.

They shouldn't offer gratitude to a fraud like him, because he simply didn't deserve it. That truth was his, and his alone. Which in a sense, made Lisbon right, he supposed. He _was_ a masked man, and he was going to stay that way.

Jane turned on his side, snuggling deeper into the worn leather. His mind was soothed by the rhythm of Van Pelt tap tap tapping away at the keys of her computer, paying homage to the gods of bureaucracy, and soon he was asleep.

.

.

 **Strawberries and Cream Part 1 – Season 3**

After her morning briefing with LaRoche and Bertram, Lisbon made her way toward her office. It was hard to believe last night she had worn a vest with enough explosives to blow her to smithereens. Rather than being shaken, however, all she could think about was how their best lead was now dead, shot by J.J. LaRoche himself.

She had one hand on her office door when she decided she needed to get the team going on that Cash in Motion list right away, before she did anything else. When she arrived in the bullpen, Cho and Rigsby couldn't hide the relief on their faces. Van Pelt just smiled. She had ambushed Lisbon in the hall earlier with a relieved hug.

"Glad you're okay, boss," Rigsby offered. "That must have been scary."

"Not something I ever want to do again," she admitted.

"We're sure happy Jane went to find you," Rigs continued. "That could have gone way differently," he quipped, trying to lighten things a bit.

"Yeah, I'm glad he figured it out, that's for sure. But he should have left when I told him to." Her brow furrowed in thought and then she straightened her posture, taking that wide stance she took when she wanted to lay down the law.

"Maybe I should make this clear right now. All of you listen up. No matter what the situation, if I give you a direct order to leave or…anything else, I expect each one of you to do exactly as I say. Got it?"

The three of them nodded.

"You ordered Jane out?" Van Pelt asked.

"Yes. And he disobeyed my _direct_ order. Which none of you," she pointed a finger at the group, "will ever do."

Jane appeared as if on cue, holding a steaming cup of tea. "Now how would it have looked if I'd left like you asked, and you'd gotten yourself blown to bits? It was my ego that kept me there, just like I said. Vanity. I certainly didn't want to look like a coward."

Rigsby and Van Pelt exchanged looks.

"It's my job to keep you all safe," Lisbon said in no uncertain terms. "I'm in charge. So in the future, you will all do what I tell you to do. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, boss," the three agents mumbled as Jane sipped his tea without comment.

"I mean it, dammit!" she stressed, unconvinced by their tepid agreement.

Having addressed that issue, Lisbon assigned various avenues of investigation regarding the list to each team member and headed back to her office. Jane disappeared toward his attic, leaving the three of them alone in the bullpen.

"Jane stayed with Lisbon," Cho stated, a little surprised.

"Usually he runs," Rigby observed, somewhat perplexed. Then he shrugged and turned back to the list on his desk.

Van Pelt ducked her head behind her laptop and smiled. She was pretty sure she knew why Jane stayed.

.

.

 **Fugue in Red – Season 4**

With money in his pocket and a beautiful brunette on his arm, Jane said his goodbyes to the team at the CBI. He'd solved the case practically by himself, and felt he'd paid any debt he owed to this team of cops. Whatever unpleasantness had occurred in his past, he saw no compelling reason to confront it. Sticking around the CBI waiting to remember something bad did not seem like a smart play on his part.

"You're running away," that sweet boss lady admonished him. "You're starting to feel something inside and you don't know what to do with it."

"That's nonsense, " he refuted, blowing her comments off, though he was intrigued to know why on earth she would so clearly feel affection for him. She genuinely cared about him – a rarity in itself, but a cop caring about him?

Maybe she felt her team couldn't do without him. This case had certainly proved they needed his help in the detecting department, he couldn't deny that. But no, her concern seemed personal rather than professional.

"Take a ride with me and if you still want to leave after that, you can," she challenged.

His curiosity got the better of him.

Sacramento to Malibu was a long haul. They rode together quietly at first, but eventually Jane struck up a conversation. "Why is it so important to you that I regain my memory? I mean, this is above and beyond the call of duty, isn't it? Am I that valuable to your team?"

She snorted. "The team will do just fine without you. If you really decide to leave, I want it to be with your full…faculties. I want you to be well."

"So you do care about me?"

"We're friends, remember?"

"No offense, but I don't have friends. In my business, it's a liability." Surely he must have been working toward a relationship with this woman – that would explain a lot. But pursuing a cop romantically? Maybe he'd been out of his mind all along, he chuckled to himself.

Then again, Tamara bore an uncanny resemblance to one Agent Teresa Lisbon. "Are you sure we're not more than friends?" he pushed.

"Yes." She shifted behind the wheel uncomfortably. "We work together. We're just friends."

"But we _have_ shared some intimate moments…"

"No," she interrupted. "We have not."

"Well now, Terezzza," he purred. "I don't mean sexually. We've danced, for instance."

"Well, yes. Once. But it wasn't like that. We were working a case at a high school reunion. It was just for fun."

Jane smiled. Maybe they had been working toward it after all - she just didn't realize it. And he _had_ told her things. Personal things. Frankly, that wasn't like him with anyone, let alone a cop. But if she truly was just a friend, why would she not let him be happy? Was it because she wanted him to stay – to keep him close?

Sometimes it was best to go straight at 'em, the Admiral Nelson way. "Why are you so convinced I need to regain my memory?"

A fleeting smile crossed her face. She was remembering something, he noted, and she did have a lovely smile.

"During that case we worked at the high school reunion you told me everyone's basic instincts never change."

"Yes, that's correct." Jesus, he really had overshared with this woman.

"But you also said if the consequences were too great, those tendencies could be overcome," she continued.

"Also true. How is this relevant?"

"Your instincts always tell you to run away from bad stuff."

"Isn't that a good thing?"

"Not necessarily. You need to be aware of the consequences."

A vague sense of dread came over him. He shook it off. "If this tragedy in my past is over and done, how can there be any consequences now?"

"You'll see." She left it at that, and their conversation turned decidedly more superficial.

Halfway to Malibu he got hungry and she automatically stopped at a diner. How did she know his preferences? He must have told her that, too. They had a pleasant meal and despite the strange circumstances, he found himself enjoying this woman's company.

After another couple of hours on the road they arrived in Malibu, driving up a steep driveway to a gorgeous house. Apparently it was his. She directed him into the empty house and up the stairs to the second floor, where he found a closed door. "What in the world?" he thought, but he was committed now.

He opened the door.

The instant he saw the face on the wall, every horrible memory returned with the swiftness of a lightning strike, flooding his mind with the agonizing truth. The searing pain, the regret, the guilt – he sagged against the door frame with its sudden weight.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

He was glad she was there.

.

.

 **Red Glass Bead - Season 5**

When Rigsby and Cho joined the line at the outdoor CBI café, it was already long. Today was the monthly special "Reuben Day" and the CBI chef sure knew his way around a corned beef. Definitely worth the wait, even for Cho.

"Hey, Rigs!" a grey suited man called out as he dropped in line behind them.

"Davis Aguero, how the hell are you?" Rigsby's face lit up as he pumped the man's hand. "Kimball Cho," Wayne said, motioning to introduce his two friends to each other. "Davis and I worked Arson back in the day – before he went to law school. You still camped out over at the courthouse?" he asked.

"Yeah, fighting the evils of injustice," the man grinned. "I've kept up with you, man. Heard about your team's mad clear rate. But I gotta tell ya, I had no idea you had a track star on your team, too."

Rigsby and Cho both frowned, confused. They had no clue as to what he was talking about.

"You haven't heard?"

"Heard what?" Rigsby asked with trepidation.

"Your psychic fella. Jane, is it? Blond dude, ugly brown shoes?"

"Yeah, what about him?" Cho asked. They knew Lisbon and Jane were meeting with the FBI this morning so a judge could determine who got custody of Lorelei Martins. They hadn't heard how it went yet.

"It was great, man. I was waiting in the courthouse lobby with a client when we heard footsteps, and all of a sudden your guy comes flying out of the hall and around the corner at top speed. Three steps behind him this long legged FBI dude is hot on his heels, doin' his level best to get his hands on your man."

"Mancini?" Rigsby grinned.

"Could be," Aguero nodded. "Tall guy? Quite a temper. He was spittin' nails."

"Mancini," Cho agreed, amused.

"Now you'd think with those long legs the Feeb woulda been gaining on your man, but he was weaving in and out between benches and columns like a running back, always giving him the slip."

The line moved a few steps, and Aguero continued. "It was quite a show. Finally a couple of uniforms grabbed Long Legs and held on to him. Your psychic stopped to catch his breath. When he looked around and realized he'd attracted a crowd, the son of a bitch took a bow. Damned if the whole lobby didn't give him a nice hand."

Rigsby stifled a laugh and even Cho cracked a smile. They couldn't wait to hear Lisbon's version of Jane's gold medal sprint.

"I'm guessing Lisbon and Jane got us Martins back," Cho remarked to Rigsby.

"Sounds like it." He was still grinning.

They reached the counter and Cho turned to order. Aguero put a hand on Rigsby's shoulder. "Good to see you, Rigs. Give my regards to your Walter Peyton, will ya?" he laughed and turned his attention to the menu. "So. What's good here?"

.

.

 **Red John Season 6**

 _Finally_ , Jane thought as he watched McAllister fall to the ground. The wounded man appeared to be down for good, so he slowed to a walk in order to catch his breath. At long last this moment had arrived - there was no need to hurry. He'd promised his late wife and daughter he would find this man and kill him, and now he was going to make good on his word.

He walked purposefully to McAllister, giving him a swift kick and knocking the phone out of his hand. Jane had played this scene over in his head thousands of times, and he didn't hesitate – he knew exactly what he wanted to do.

He straddled the supine man. Now, as of this moment, this evil man's abominations would end. There would be no pleading, no attempt to deal for mercy. Putting a hand tight on his throat, Patrick said the names of his beloved Angela and Charlotte, and asked if McAllister was sorry for what he had done to them. Jane saw in his eyes that he was indeed sorry, and a surge of satisfaction rippled through his being.

When McAllister acknowledged he was scared to die, Jane fully grasped he had made this man feel the same terror his many innocent victims had experienced. As he squeezed his hand tighter around the psychopath's throat, life drained from his panicked eyes, and a wave of exhilaration and ecstasy rolled up through Jane - the culmination of ten years of resolute purpose.

He relaxed his hand and sat back, relishing the truth of the moment. The man who killed his family was no longer alive. Patrick had accomplished the goal he'd been working toward for ten years, ever since the day he walked out of that psych hospital.

Jane looked around, taking note of his surroundings. What now? He could wait for the FBI and claim self-defense, but this time he knew he would be sent to prison. He wasn't going there. He lifted the gun to his head – should he just end it here? And then he thought of Teresa.

No, he considered, that would hurt her deeply – he couldn't do that. He would run. Get out of the country. Once he was safely hidden, he would figure things out. Decide what to do with whatever was left of his life.

He placed his gun in McAllister's dead hand and called Lisbon. She would want to know he was okay, and he wanted to say goodbye.

"…I'll miss you," he finished. And then he ran.

.

.

.

.

Thanks for reading my scribblings and I hope you enjoyed them. The third and final chapter's scenes will be set after Jane returns to the US.


	3. Homeward Bound

.

.

Cpt 3 Running Away

I do not own these characters and no copyright infringement is intended.

 _AN: Thanks so much for all the comments, folks, I appreciate them. To the guest who was disappointed I didn't mention Jane 'running away' to Las Vegas, I hope this installment explains my thoughts on that incident._

 _This chapter would benefit from a trip to the beta and a couple more days of editing, but if I don't get it out today, it will most likely be September before I get back to it, so I'm letting it fly. Apologies for the gunk that should have been fixed. And now, without further yammering, the longish conclusion:_

 _._

 _._

 _._

 **Green Thumb 6.10**

Light was fading outside as Jane flipped on the lamp in his "detention suite." He sank down into the stuffed chair and picked up his book, thumbing through it. Before long, however, he slid it back onto the table. He couldn't read tonight – he had too much on his mind.

Now that Abbott and the FBI big wigs knew about his (fake) list of mystery Blake cohorts, his play for freedom was set in motion and patience was required. He had been in some form of prison for twelve years, so what was an extra week or two, in the scheme of things? That's why he was determined to wait this out with the FBI and get his own terms. If he was to have a life again, he wanted to live it with a full compliment of possibilities.

Thinking about possibilities steered his thoughts to Teresa, and those thoughts were unsettling. Their frank conversation on the plane had upset him more than he wanted to admit. She was angry he "ran away" from her, but he couldn't tell her the rest of the story yet – that he had only escaped to set his plan in motion.

In reality, he hadn't run away from her at all – not any more than he had run away from her that time he faked a breakdown in Las Vegas, back years ago. Both were actually just plans he couldn't share with her in real time. He wasn't going to change his mind and share this one, either. He had ruined her CBI career and he was determined to make that as right as he could. She could not be complicit in any way regarding his current scheme.

If this all turned out as planned, he was still hopeful Lisbon would reconsider and accept a job offer at the FBI. Certainly the Lisbon he knew two years ago would do that. If and when the FBI accepted his terms, _then_ (and only then) could he explain his "running away" so she could see it from the proper perspective.

The more bothersome problem was, he _had_ made a serious, self-absorbed mistake, and it didn't involve running away. During the two years he'd been stuck in limbo on that island, Lisbon had been getting on with her life. Of course she had – she thought he was gone forever. And while he felt she would forgive him for this New York escape once she understood it was necessary for his plan, her other words had stung him badly.

Mainly because she was right. He hadn't considered all this from her point of view. She'd interpreted his assumptions as disrespect, which he had never meant, but she had a point. He was making decisions for her without asking.

As well as he thought he knew Teresa Lisbon, and as deeply as he cared for her, part of his concern should be accepting that she would make up her own mind about things. Yes, he had made a major misstep - one he was determined not to repeat.

A knock at his door interrupted his thoughts.

"Come in." Suppertime, he assumed, and the door opened to reveal a man holding a tray. "What's the cuisine this evening, Kenny?"

Kenny was thirtyish, a little chunky – an amiable fellow who gave off the air of not quite having his life together. This was true, Jane had learned, because his long time girlfriend recently left him for another man. Angry at Kenny for an unintentional error of insensitivity, she had stormed off with the first guy who asked, even though he was unsuitable for her both from Kenny's point of view and Jane's, after he'd heard the details of the situation.

"Chicken 'n' mashed taters, sida English peas," the young man informed him with a thick Texas drawl. "Them rolls is fresh, too."

"Excellent." The food here was a pleasant surprise. Not inspired by any means, but quite edible. Coupled with the inactivity, Jane had picked up a pound or two during his "detention."

The man placed the tray on the small table.

"By the way, Kenny, how are things with Jess?"

"I ain't had time to start on that plan you cooked up yet, Mr. Jane. Been doing double shifts 'cause we got a gal out havin' a baby."

"You know, I've been thinking about that idea," he mentioned. The brilliant plan he'd hatched featured Kenny manipulating his old girlfriend into coming back to him. Her new lover would be discredited, pointing to Kenny as her better match. "I've reconsidered, my friend, and I think I've given you some bad advice," Jane admitted.

"Ya have?"

"Yes. Not on purpose, mind you. I simply hadn't thought it all the way through. Tricking Jess into coming back might work, but it doesn't respect her choices. And if you truly love her…"

"I do," Kenny interrupted eagerly. "Love that woman sumpthin' fierce."

"…then you should let her know you are sorry for what you did, and respect her choices. Show her how much she means to you by your actions. Shower her with love and affection, and let her make her own decision. That other guy sounds like a jerk – not the right man for Jess. If you are patient, she should come around."

"Yeah, he's an asshole for sure. Don't treat her good at all. Sometimes he'll just up and leave for a couple a days – without tellin' her or nothin'. I'd never do that to Jess, and she knows it. He don't care about her like I do."

Jane winced a little at that. "Stay the course, my man, and hopefully she will recognize your true love for her. She'll see this new fellow for what he is – an opportunist who happened to show up at a vulnerable moment."

"Yeah," Kenny said, deep in thought. "Okay, Mr. Jane. That makes sense…I didn't feel right about tricking her anyhow." Then he pulled the cover off the dinner plate with flair. "Ta da!"

"Ah," Jane reacted with a smile. The chicken looked moist and he loved peas.

"Gotta run – I'll pick up in 'bout an hour."

"Thank you, Kenny."

While he ate, Jane decided he needed to take his own advice. If his plan worked and he got out of here, he would show Teresa – whether she was here or in Washington – that he had no plans to run away again.

A few days later, she appeared suddenly in his room bearing excellent news. Apparently his plan had worked a treat, and better yet, the Lisbon he knew had opted for a job with the FBI. But in the course of their conversation, she made her point again, in no uncertain terms. She decided things for her. Jane took note. He vowed to himself that he would not make that mistake again.

.

.

 **Silver Briefcase**

Okay, maybe beekeeping wasn't exactly the right occupation for Teresa, he reflected as he lay beside her in the Airstream bed. The soft rise and fall of her breath provided a rhythm for his thoughts as they swirled and tangled in his head, robbing him of peaceful slumber.

He couldn't simply turn off those thoughts. Now that he'd admitted to himself that his desire to return had everything to do with Teresa and very little to do with working at the FBI, his mind had run wild with the possibilities.

He enjoyed the chase of this job, to be sure, but mostly he enjoyed working with the woman he loved. But the more intimate they became, the harder it was for him to see her in danger. So he'd made it his mission to lure her away from this kind of work and its inherent risks. She wasn't just going to up and leave, though, she'd made that clear. He would have to present some viable, attractive option.

She needed to feel useful to society - he understood that about her. She certainly liked saving people – she'd saved him, after all. Maybe she could be a lifeguard, he smiled to himself. Her uniform for that job certainly appealed to him, and think of the new freckles he might find. Not a train of thought he needed to dwell on right now, he warned himself. Teresa wasn't one to enjoy being awakened from a sound sleep for such matters.

Maybe they could travel the world. She could write travel advice on how not to get mugged in foreign countries. Nah, that wouldn't fly. She liked animals. Maybe they should buy a ranch and raise cattle or horses or something. He pictured her in cowboy boots and a ten gallon hat - she'd be cute as a button. And he could easily imagine her ordering around the ranch hands, sending them to and fro.

If not that, a park ranger, perhaps? Now there was an idea with real possibilities. She could rescue tourists and they could spend their days living in the wonderful world of nature. He would mention it when the time seemed right – get her reaction, feel her out.

He turned and gazed upon her serene face, illuminated by the moonlight streaming in through the window. Sometimes he had to pinch himself to make sure this was real. After years of living alone in every way, now his beloved Teresa was right here, in bed beside him, her lovely hair scattered all over his pillow. He had to hold on to this newfound happiness - he couldn't imagine life without this ever again. Was is so wrong to want to protect her? To keep her safe? If only she would run away with him.

He wondered briefly what she would look like in a chef's hat (and nothing else) – maybe, he thought as he finally drifted off, they could start their own food truck…

.

.

.

 **Nothing Gold Can Stay**

Jane sat beside Lisbon in somber silence as the service came to a close. Vega's coffin was lowered into the grave and everyone stood for the final prayer. After the 'amens' were said, the team lined up to take turns with the shovel. Jane moved toward the back of the line, but when he heard the first thump of dirt hitting the top of the casket, his heart began to pound in his chest and his breathing accelerated. He promptly melted to the edge of the crowd and scurried away, across the graveyard toward a large tree.

It could have been Teresa. It could just as easily have been the woman he loved. In an instant, at any moment, his reason for living could be snuffed out, just like before, and this cruel truth both terrified and paralyzed him. He struggled to regain control as he crouched under the impassive oak, and it took every biofeedback technique he knew to slow his heart and respiratory rates.

His mind, however, continued to race. What if he lost Teresa? He knew he couldn't bear that kind of pain again. Fear gripped him too tightly to function in this environment - something had to change. He had to get away, if only to think.

Teresa soon sought him out. He told her he had to leave, inviting her along and he saw the answer in her eyes. He'd been a fool to hope she would come with him. She was brave. Tough. She never ran from anything, and she'd already made it abundantly clear she wasn't leaving the job she loved just for him. There had to be a way to make this work, he told himself, but in the shadow of all this death, he wasn't able to think clearly enough to figure it out.

The raw hurt in her eyes when he kissed her cheek made him hate himself even more. And yet, he had no choice. He was suffocating in anxiety, and he had to get away. Somewhere calm. Beautiful. Where he could breathe again. Maybe there he could come up with a solution.

.

.

 **Byzantium**

She had him arrested. "Failure to appear." It was priceless, really. But it was too soon – he was still trying to make sense of it all. He hadn't found his answer. How could he stay with Lisbon and yet manage his fears?

When they met in the conference room, she was pretty angry. Frosty even. But she agreed to give him time. And as he watched her walk back out to her desk, he further stiffened his resolve to find a solution. This good woman meant everything to him. _If you're so smart_ , Paddy, he chided himself, _get busy and figure this one out. You have to._

After he talked to the 'psychic' kid for Abbott, he set out in the Airstream again, driving randomly along the back roads outside of Austin. When his belly grumbled, he found a tavern and drank his dinner. He could sleep it off in the trailer, and the relaxing burn of alcohol was a welcome respite from his stressful deliberations.

As he stepped out into the night air to walk off his buzz, he had no idea where he was going. As usual, he observed, he was running away with no clear destination. Everything he cared about was back there at FBI headquarters. A strong woman - constant, steadfast, and unafraid.

"So how's all this running away working for you, Patrick Jane?" he bellowed out loudly to nobody but the frogs. Frogs. There must be water somewhere. As he made his way in the moonlight toward the croaking sounds, fatigue settled over him. He sank down into the tall grass, just to rest for a moment. He was on the verge of something – of some breakthrough – he could feel it. But he was tired. So very tired.

The bright sunlight woke him, and he turned over half asleep, expecting to see Teresa at his side. How quickly he had acquired that habit, he reflected. But of course, she wasn't there.

As he rose and stretched, he spied the pond, noting the cabin on the other side. It was for sale! He walked down to the water's edge where he breathed in the fresh air and listened to the gentle murmuring of the coots. A sense of calm came over him. Here, in a place like this, he could find peace.

It was then, surrounded by the tranquility of nature, that his moment of clarity arrived – he had to stop running away. If he couldn't ignore the dangers, like Lisbon did, he could construct a sanctuary. For them. A place to share - away from work, away from danger. He would build something real, with his own hands. Something honest. Surely he could deal with his anxiety if only he had this place to calm him. Finding relief from his fears didn't have to mean running away from Teresa.

His phone rang. Abbott wanted him to come back - they needed his help on the case. Given his recent epiphany, he found he could say 'yes.' Maybe, he considered, after all these years, he was through running away.

.

.

 **Brown Shag Carpet**

They arrived at the crime scene only to find another tragedy. Due to the city wide panic, an innocent man had been shot by a frightened one. The citizens' distress was snowballing and not only were they no closer to finding the perpetrator, they didn't even have a decent plan. Like it or not, the "psychic" ruse seemed to be the only workable option at this point. _No more running away, Patrick_ , he told himself. _Get past that fateful TV appearance. Do the right thing._

"Okay, well - do we try Tork's idea?" he asked.

Lisbon immediately rose to his defense, but he insisted. Showing her his plot of land hadn't convinced her of his commitment. This was a golden opportunity to prove he was done with running away from his past. Maybe now she would see he was serious.

"I'll do it."

.

.

 **White Orchids**

Strains of "September" drifted across the pond and reflected lights sparkled on the glassy surface of the water as the newly married couple sat on their log, basking in contented bliss. He was glad they hadn't eloped - sharing this joy with their friends had been life affirming. He wasn't sure life could get any better than this, and that's when she proved him wrong.

"You are?"

"I am."

Overwhelmed, he gathered her into his arms. Running away would never be an option again.

.

.

 **Epilogue - 2024**

"No, you may not go to see _Bikers' Revenge_ with your friends. It got one star reviews, and it's PG 13 for violence. You know how I feel about things like that." Lisbon's eyes blazed. They had been over this way too many times.

"But mom," Christopher whined. "I know it's not real – I'm nine. It's just a movie with actors and fake blood and stuff. Mason and Jose's parents are letting them go."

"Your friends' parents' decisions are irrelevant to me," she stated, coldly definite.

Patrick stood nearby, saddened by the conflict between mother and son. This necessary aspect of parenthood was not one he relished. Their son looked over at him with pitiful, begging eyes, but Teresa's gaze snapped toward him as well, shooting daggers that said _don't you dare_.

He lifted his hands, showing them his palms. He would not get in the middle of this, and he wouldn't undermine her authority. He accidently did so once and he'd barely lived to regret it. Besides, he agreed with her on this one. This was a junky, violence filled movie without redeeming value, and one their son would never had been interested in on his own.

"Fine!" a frustrated Christopher shouted. "Just treat me like a baby forever!" With a dramatic whirl on his heel, he stalked off down the hall. Soon came the slam of a bedroom door.

A look of solidarity passed between Teresa and Patrick, and they shared a simultaneous sigh. She reached for her purse. It was Saturday, and she had errands she needed to run.

"I've got an appointment at the hairdresser's and then I'll drop by Lowes to get those light bulbs. I pass right by there on the way home."

"I'll deal with the drama king," Patrick said with a smile.

"Better you than me," she grinned, and she was out the door.

Jane brewed a cup of tea and sat on the screened porch for a while, thinking. After about thirty minutes, he heard the toilet flush inside. His son had ventured out of his cave, at least to take care of the necessities. Jane rose and padded quietly down the hall. Christopher's door was open now, and he heard shuffling noises inside the room. He approached silently and surprised the boy by appearing in the doorway unannounced.

"Dad!" he yelped, startled. The contents of his soccer duffle bag lay dumped on his bedroom floor and Christopher was filling his emptied bag with clothes. He made a feeble attempt to conceal the bag, but he was busted.

"Well," Patrick said, unconcerned. "Looks like you're packing. Decided to run away from home, have you?"

Christopher frowned in confusion, taken aback. He'd expected his father to protest or be angry. "What if I was?" he shot back, defiant.

"Always an option," Jane said, raising a finger to his lips in thought. "What's your play here?"

"You saw what happened - you didn't say anything. Mom is treating me like a baby and you are too. I'm not a baby."

"Remind me why your mother turned down your request."

"Because the movie's PG – 13. That's just a stupid number. Aren't parents supposed to make their own decisions? Both my friends get to go."

"How old are Mason and Jose?"

"Mason's twelve and Jose's eleven. They're my friends. They're in my gifted math class at school."

"Ah," Patrick responded. Somehow he and Teresa had produced a math and science whiz kid - they were still puzzling over that one. He walked into the room and peered at the soccer bag. "Need some help packing?"

"Huh?" This was not the response he'd expected from his father.

"Surprised? While I disagree with your decision to run away, I respect it, so I thought I'd try to be helpful. I always want the best for you - you know that, right?"

"Yeah, but…"

"Clearly you've thought this through and you've decided running away is the best option."

"Yeah," he boy boasted with false bravado.

"I ran away several times when I was a kid, you know."

"You did?" Christopher's eyes widened.

"Yup." His son didn't know that. He'd never talked about his own childhood much with the boy. He'd never asked, luckily. "I worked for my father when I was your age. In a carnival."

"A circus? What did you do?" He thought his mom and dad had worked for law enforcement for like, forever. "Is that where you learned all your magic tricks?"

"My dad was a showman – a con man. He pretended to read people's minds and I was part of his act."

"Seriously? So he was basically, like, a crook?" He realized what he'd just said. "Kinda…" he backtracked.

"No 'kinda.' He was a crook."

"Why'd you run away?" the boy asked, now transfixed by the possibility of learning about his father's checkered past. "Why would you run away from the circus? I mean, aren't kids supposed to run away _with_ the circus?"

"My father didn't need me for his act in the winter, so he would usually dump me onto some other carnie folks until the season started in the spring. But one winter he was in a hurry to run off with a lady friend on some hot scheme, so he left me with a random couple in Carson Springs. He said he'd pay them to keep me."

The boy's eyes widened. All he knew about his grandparents was that he didn't have any. They were all dead. His dad never talked about his childhood, and until now, he hadn't been curious about it. "What happened?"

"Suffice to say they were not nice people, and I decided to run away. I didn't plan very well, though, and I spent a couple of weeks eating out of dumpsters, stealing food, and sleeping under store awnings.

"You stole stuff?"

Jane ignored his question. The boy didn't need the whole truth just yet. "Eventually I got picked up by the cops and sent to Child Protective Services. Didn't work out exactly like I planned. So that's why I'm assuming since you're a smart kid, you have a better plan than I did. And that you're not too concerned about how much your mother would worry about you."

The boy looked down at his feet. He was beginning to feel a little sheepish.

"Or is that your plan? To get back at your mother by making her worry herself sick. It's true, she wouldn't sleep a wink tonight if you were gone."

Christopher looked up at his father, his face a swirl of conflicting emotions.

"Look, I understand. You don't want your friends to see you as a younger, since you're just as smart as they are. You want to be part of the group. And you're angry at your mother. And me."

He nodded reluctantly.

"And you can be angry, and run away, if you want. But you need to ask yourself what that gets you. If you run away, you'll worry your mother, that's for sure. But will that change her mind on the movie? Will you even get to see the movie? Have some cash saved up for tickets, do you?

"No," the boy whispered, looking miserable.

"There are, however, other alternatives you might consider," Patrick said, rubbing his fingers together.

The boy tilted his head and peered at his father. "Like what?" He was listening.

"What's something big you've been wanting to do that your friends could do with you? Something that might require your mother and me to take you somewhere or arrange something."

A smile slowly spread across Christopher's face. He was getting it. "I'd love to go to the Houston Space Center. Mom always says we don't have time to drive down there."

"Is that something your friends might enjoy as well?"

Now the boy was grinning. He had inherited his father's infectious smile. "Mom feels bad that she won't let me go to the movies – and she should," he felt compelled to editorialize. "So if I ask if we could go to Houston to the Space Center some weekend and take Mason and Jose, she might say okay to that, instead of saying she's too busy."

"Aaaaand that's why you're in those gifted classes, m'boy."

Father and son shared a laugh.

"That's a lot better than a stupid movie. Mason and Jose and me at the Space Center? Epicness!"

Patrick didn't think that was a word, but he kept that opinion to himself. "Need any help unpacking?" he asked.

"Nope," his son said, ducking his head, still a little embarrassed about his impulsive plan. "Got that covered."

"Well, if I can be of any further help, let me know. I'll be out on the porch."

As he reached the boy's bedroom door, Christopher's voice stopped him. "Hey, dad?"

He looked back over his shoulder.

"Thanks."

"I had nothing to do with this," Jane shrugged with a conspiring grin. As he turned to saunter back out to his beloved seat on the porch, his grin widened. Their son would go far. He just wouldn't get there by running away.

.

.

THE END

.

.

AN: I hope you enjoyed this little study on Jane's tendencies to run away. I'm out for the month of August, but hopefully some new idea will hit me in [sings]September…[/sings].


End file.
